ROCKLAND LAKE. Painted by JESSE TALBOT. THE OAKEN BUCKET. Painted by F. S. AGATE. OUTWARD BOUND. Painted by THOMAS BIRCH. THE CAPUCHIN MONK. Painted by C. VER BRYCK. LAST OF THE WAMPANOAGS. THE BRACELET. WINTER. Painted by GEORGE MILLER. FIRST SHIP. Painted by JOHN G. CHAPMAN. THE LESSON OF A MOMENT. "THE heart knoweth its own bitterness," is a truth, which the unhappy repeat to themselves, perhaps, too often. That the bitterness of other hearts is unknown to them, is equally true; and if it were more habitually and distinctly present to their minds, would often stifle the murmurs of discontent, if it did not illumine them with a ray of cheerfulness. We magnify our own troubles. We extenuate those of our friends. We draw comparisons unfavorable to ourselves, with a most superficial knowledge of those with whom we put ourselves in contrast. From a smiling and sunny exterior, we infer that all is peace within, forgetting that the same erroneous impressions might be received in our own case, by one who saw only that side of us which is turned to the world. Were all the houses of our friends unroofed by another Asmodeus, we should find that none of them was without its dark shadow, and we should realize the truth of the Italian proverb, which says, that there is a skeleton in every house. Were there a window in every breast, what startling revela tions would be made of unknown sorrows and unsuspected struggles, the rust of discontent eating the heart of the prosperous, and the vulture of care gnawing the vitals of the gay, -untold and hopeless grief lying with the weight of mountains upon apparently the lightest bosoms, and the settled gloom of despair resting upon those, whose life seemed glowing with the brightest hues of morning. How often should we find, that the repose which we supposed to flow from the absence of disturbing impulses - the glassy calm of the waveless lake was the equilibrium of resisting and struggling forces, which, without the unslumbering presence of the great law of duty, would make shipwreck of the life which they perplex, but cannot subdue. How often should we learn, that he, whose sparkling wit and airy vivacity had won our admiration, and perhaps awakened our envy, had fled to society to escape the presence of some spectral care, which haunted his solitary hours, and that his vivid eloquence and pointed sallies owed their birth, in some measure, to the stimulating and morbid influence of "some fatal remembrance," which kept his mind in a state of perpetual effervescence and unrest. Could we see others as they see themselves, what lessons of submission might we not learn; and not merely of submission, but of toleration also. How many wrong opinions should we correct, how many unjust judgments should we reverse, how many cruel censures should we recall. It was at an early hour in the evening, in the month of December, 18-, that a young man was walking through one of the most fashionable streets of one of our large cities. The last lingering traces of daylight were still visible in the heavens. The western sky was all a-glow with those blended hues, which give to our winter sunsets so peculiar and striking a charm. The space nearest the horizon was occupied by a broad strip of deep orange, from which the colors gradually and imperceptibly softened until they disappeared in the sober tints of the zenith, ending in a faint and quivering line of the most delicate green. The evening star sparkled in its station, as if it were conscious of the beauty by which it was surrounded, and of which it formed so conspicuous a part. The dying wind sighed among the naked branches with a sound, melancholy or inspiriting, according to the mood of mind in him who listened to it. The elastic air gave quickness to the pulse, and made the "bosom's lord sit light upon his throne." It was a scene and an hour which affect an imaginative mind the more from the absence of that verdure and bloom, which make the charm of summer's scenery, and which seem like a veil which the hand of winter withdraws, bringing us face to face with the Invisible. The hues which glow and burn upon the western sky, appear like the glittering portals of another world, and the spiritual, low-toned wind seems to blow upon us from a realm "beyond the flight of time." Our young friend was, from his age, character, and position, peculiarly susceptible to these influences. He was one of that class, which make no inconsiderable element in the pride and glory of New England. Born in an humble position, he had achieved, mostly by his own efforts and with little assistance from others, the best education which the institutions of our country can afford, and now that he stood upon the verge of manhood, he felt himself equal in capacities and opportunities to those who had begun life under the most favorable auspices. His powers and energies were of a high order, and his moral nature was such as would help him to make the most of them. He had won literary dis |